


> gather your party and venture forth

by popPulchritude



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popPulchritude/pseuds/popPulchritude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shot Dragon Age stories that don't warrant posts of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Did Queen Anora love King Cailan?

**Author's Note:**

> slight au, considering i didn't read much about them before i wrote this /cries

Did Queen Anora Mac Tir love King Cailan Theirin?  
  
They met when they were children both below five feet. Anora wore her father’s no-nonsense countenance, and Cailan spoke of his love of the wind and the trees, and the adventures that lay beyond. One thought the other foolish, and the other thought the one sour. Neither could stand each other’s company.

They re-met when they were teenagers, matured and sharpened. Anora’s hair had grown down to her back, and she carried herself with elegance and dignity – the envy of the noblewomen in court. Cailan, now formally addressed as “Prince”, was stronger and more handsome.  
  
Their juvenile irritation for each other was replaced by a more primal desire. Cheeks flushed with wine and bodies burning, they fled the hustle and bustle of the party, and shared kisses and caresses under the moonlight.  
  
Word of the act spread like wildfire. Anora acted ashamed, but her ambitions were being realized. Cailan was indifferent. Loghain and Maric were ecstatic. There were many more discussions, and many more midnight trysts in between, until all related parties agreed to the marriage.  
  
There were protests from nobles, of course. A prince marrying a commoner was unthinkable. So, when people got wind of Anora being barren, the people bitterly thought they got what they deserved.  
  
Time passed. King Cailan and Queen Anora’s marriage was never happily ever after. Their passion did not thrive on the wake of duty. There were mornings when Cailan’s nose would be buried in a bundle of oily hair and sticky skin that weren’t his wife’s. There were nights when Anora would find herself hunched up in a dark room with a bottle of rum in her hand, trying to save face. There were weeks when they could hardly stand each other’s presence, and they slipped into their bed coldly and without pause.  
  
But they were partners. They made up for each other’s weaknesses, and forgave each other’s transgressions. Cailan had the ideas and the charm, and Anora had the determination and the initiative. Cailan inspired her to laugh at jokes, forgive and forget, and Anora taught him to be strict and firm, and to never leave his weapons on the dining table.  
  
Together, Ferelden flourished. Ferelden was the child they nurtured. Ferelden was what kept them together.  
  
When Cailan died, Anora’s heart did not break, but a part of her soul died with him.  
  
Did Queen Anora Mac Tir love King Cailan Theirin?  
  
For all the passion, the anger and frustration he caused her, the fire and lightning, yes. She supposed she did. But a ruler knows how to learn from grief. A Queen knows how to save face.


	2. Charcoal to Ashes

He’s heard about her many, many times – Irving’s apprentice, the brilliant, reclusive Amell with a tongue as sharp as her wits.  
  
The first time he saw her, she was covered in grime.   
  
Cullen normally didn’t talk to the mages, but this time he felt inclined to ask her what happened, if a potion went wrong and she needed help somewhere. She squeaked, eyes wide, and hid her hands behind her back.  
  
“I’m not doing anything illegal,” she said. Cullen raised a suspicious eyebrow. She sighed, succumbing. “Well, maybe a little, but it’s not blood magic. What are you looking at me like that for? It’s not blood magic!”  
  
“Show me your hands.”  
  
“No.”  
  
 _“Show me your hands_.”  
  
Amell huffed, not wanting to suffer the wrath of a templar, and showed him her hands. “I just… took some charcoal. Without permission. Of course, I _tried_ asking permission, but they didn’t want to give me some. For classes and projects only, they said.”  
  
“What do you need charcoal for?”  
  
She blushed. “I’m… drawing,” she admitted, reluctantly. Cullen placed his hands on his hips, convinced he’s latched onto a maleficar’s devious plans. She rolled her eyes and pulled out several, blank vellums from her pouch. Only – they weren’t blank. They were full of drawings of people, but there were no backgrounds. As if reading his mind, she told him that she would’ve put landscapes there, but she didn’t know how what they looked like in the first place. She was an incredible artist, lines like a professional painter, but such as it is, she was just a sneaky thief of a mage that was covered in charcoal.  
  
“But how did the charcoal get all over your robes? And your hair?”  
  
She shrugged. “Have you never heard of the creative process? It’s a bitch.” Her expression softened, and it was such a sharp contrast from her earlier stiffness that Cullen felt a whiplash. “I… um. I need to get to the Apprentice’s Quarters to change, but they usually lock the rooms around these hours because most of the apprentices should be training with their Enchanters. You’re the Knight-Captain, right? You have some sort of Master Key.”  
  
Cullen rolled his eyes and gestured Amell to walk with him. “Why aren’t you with your Enchanter, anyway?”  
  
“Because the First Enchanter is at Denerim right now. Come on, Cullen. Not all mages are conspiring to overtake Thedas with blood magic. Some just really want to write a book.”  
  
“You want to write a book?”  
  
“I’m going to, if they let me have ink,” she joked.  
  
Cullen has heard rumors of her, but they didn’t do her justice. She wasn’t a porcupine, ready to burrow her needles into your skin when you get to close. She was just a silly girl, covered in charcoal and itching to write a book. She smiled at him and he felt his stomach flutter.  
  
She knocked on the door in front of them, and Cullen sputtered, fumbling over his keys. He opened the door for her and she rushed inside, eager for a change of clothes. Before Cullen turned to leave, her head peaked out of the door and she called him.  
  
“Cullen! Hey. You’re the Knight-Captain, right? Could you…” she blushed, almost coyly, and Cullen stood in anticipation. “…um. Hook me up with some ink, sometime?”  
  
“Absolutely not. And you should return that charcoal while you can, too.”  
  
When she was out of sight, Cullen buried his face in his hands.  
  
He brought her some ink the next day, anyway.  
  
(She promised him a copy.)


	3. In which everybody kisses everybody else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

_alistair/zevran_

 

  
Their lips parted, taking in much needed air. Alistair laughed, light and characteristic, and traced Zevran’s sun kissed cheeks to the tips of his blond hair, combing his fingers through it. Zevran had an accomplished grin on his face.  
  
“My dear Alistair,” Zevran whispered, his breath prickling Alistair’s heated skin. “There is a customary toll for crossing borders, yes?”  
  
“We’re still in Ferelden –” Alistair noticed Zevran’s raised eyebrow and got the hint. He jabbed his arm playfully, and pulled him into another kiss.

 

  
_alistair/leliana_

 

  
Leliana’s eyes widened as she was handed the rose from the Chantry gardens, the rose from the grey, ugly bush that confirmed her vision. “Alistair… this is the rose from the Lothering Chantry.”  
  
Alistair’s blushed, adorable when flushed, and rubbed the back of his head. “When we arrived at Lothering, I thought it was awful, full of nothing but death and destruction. But then… I found this and I thought: How could something so beautiful exist amidst this chaos? I’ve kept it ever since.  
  
“I want you to have it. In a weird way, I think the same when I see you.”  
  
Lothering was all but destroyed, and Leliana was glad she was now in the possession of something from the Chantry that saved her soul and shielded her from bad weather. She was also glad for the silly, romantic Warden in front of her, and she kissed him to tell him this.

 

  
  
_alistair/morrigan 1_

 

  
Alistair’s hands were trembling as they explored the expanse of white, creamy skin. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration – as if this exercise was a lesson to memorize, a routine to perfect! How ridiculous! – and he was getting unbearably sweaty. He let out a nervous laugh.  
  
“I’ve… never done this before.”  
  
Morrigan rolled her eyes. To prevent his bumbling idiocy to ruin this intimate moment, she rolled him on his back and climbed on him. Alistair’s eyes were wide as saucers, the expression not unlike an innocent doe, and a dynamic was established – her the predator and him, the prey.

 

  
_alistair/morrigan 2_   
  


 

“Have I ever told you that… I love you? Ha. That’s not so bad, is it?”  
  
But it was that bad. Morrigan was frozen in place, their roles reversed for once; him the predator and her the prey. “We need to end this,” she declared, half-hearted and automatic. Alistair looked like a kicked mabari. He thumbed the ring she gave him nervously.  
  
“…What?”  
  
“I told you that love was a weakness, didn’t I? I warned you that I would call this off as soon as you thought this was going anywhere, I –”  
  
“So, that’s it? That’s your solution? The moment you start to feel, you have to sever ties immediately? Morrigan…” Alistair cupped her chin and forced her to look him in the eyes, his armor almost blinding. His eyes were brown and intolerably warm, the safest place she never knew. “…do you really want to end this?”  
  
“What I want – is to save both of us from this foolishness. Tell me you don’t love me; tell me our time together is over. Say it like you mean it and save us both from this tragedy.”  
  
Alistair’s shoulders slumped. He was on the verge of tears and Morrigan felt her chest tighten. “No. If you want to break it off, you do it.”  
  
“Then…” She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She didn’t want to. “…we will both suffer. And perhaps that’s how it should be.”  
  
He pulled her into a passionless kiss. There were no happy endings for tainted knights and forest witches, just cautionary tales and heartbreak.  
  


 

_morrigan/zevran_

 

  
Zevran smiled as he strapped his Dalish gloves on back again, watching Morrigan fumble for her top. And what a great top it was! Wonderfully cut, showing the exact amount to make the most virtuous man salivate but hiding enough to play with the imagination. He should try to endorse something like that back in Antiva.  
  
Zevran shuffled closer to help her with her bra – “Enough, Zevran!” – and checked outside the tent to see if the coast was clear.  
  
“Never tell anyone about this, elf,” Morrigan threatened, wicked and lovely as always.  
  
“I would never think of it. Tomorrow night?”  
  
Morrigan sighed. “Be more discrete, but yes.”


	4. Sing the song of heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storyteller writes a book.

At a young age, my mother ignited a flame in me that remained well into my adult life. She helped me appreciate the gift of storytelling, the careful construction of words that enchanted the imagination like a beautiful temptress. I grew up with many stories, from Flemeth the Devourer of Men to Aveline the Brave Knight of Orlais – all of these, I treasured as well as any heirloom.  
  
Unsurprisingly, the Bardic lifestyle drew me in. It intoxicated me with applause for performing something I love – singing, storytelling – and promise of all sorts of adventure. As a bard, it was part of my creed that I will never be part of history. So, stories remained stories; I told them, but I never wrote any.  
  
Through strenuous circumstances, I gave up my life as a bard and took refuge in the Lothering chantry. I fully intended to remain a lay sister there until one night, I had an odd dream. Perhaps it was a vision from the Maker, or perhaps it was self-righteous delirium, but whatever the cause, the effect of pursuing its hidden message changed my life forever. I met the Hero of Ferelden, and I followed them as they sought to defeat the Fifth Blight.  
  
Many stories have dubious origins. They evolve with many retellings, and are solidified by historians and storytellers. This is a first person eye witness account of what will soon be the hero that children of this generation will grow up with. No extravagant lies; just the cold, honest truth. You may wonder if I will be true to my word about separating fact from fiction given my background as a bard, but this time, I am not seeking to intimidate or to impress. My purpose in writing this is to preserve the memories of a dear friend, one I hold close to my heart, for all their virtues and their faults.  
  
I will not mention their name, or their gender and race. I wanted to, but when I told my friend this, they cocked their head up to me and said, “Why does it matter? I am a Grey Warden. I’ve left those things behind to pursue a higher purpose.” I realized they had a point. You are free to imagine them as human or elf; warrior or mage; noble or casteless; male or female if you like. This will be a story of a single Grey Warden as much as it is about all of them, and the person they should aspire to be.  
  
The credit to this book’s title belongs to the mage Niall, who walks with the Maker now.  
  
\-- The Introduction of  _Darker Times, Great Acts of Heroism: The story of the legendary Grey Warden of the Dragon Age_  by Leliana, Sister Nightingale and former Orlesian Bard


	5. five times maric wanted to kiss loghain and the one time he did

1  
  
“Have you ever stolen something not because you needed it, but because it was funny?”  
  
“Any sort of thievery is nothing to laugh about.”  
  
“No, no, it’s not bad thievery. It’s good thievery, where you take something and give it back and laugh about it after.”  
  
Loghain looked at him as if the words “good thievery” and “laughter” were alien, never before heard of concepts. Maric waved his hand like the act would help him snatch the hovering words he needed to explain. “When I was a kid, I used to take my grandfather’s spectacles and run around with them. You know, for laughs.”  
  
“I never did anything like that.”  
  
“Are you sure you were ever a kid?”  
  
“Maric,” Loghain snapped. He reached for Maric’s shoulder, a question – Maric didn’t know what question (the witch, of course it was the witch what else) – hung in the air. Maric gulped.  
  
“I’m fine, Loghain.”  
  
The answer satisfied Loghain for now, and they continued walking.  
  
  
  
  
2  
  
Loghain Mac Tir was invincible. He was a one-man army that knew how to ride horses and everything. So, when he galloped off to the forest to distract the enemy and the arl almost gave up on him, Maric wasn’t worried.  
  
That doesn’t mean he wasn’t happy when he saw Loghain well at camp, hair caked with blood and face dirty. Quite the opposite. He was ecstactic, and gave Loghain his overdue bear hug. Loghain made a pained cough but held on like the invincible trooper that he was. He looked at Maric like he magically grew a head made out of cheese, breath prickling his lips, and Maric decided it was time to – dance.  
  
3  
  
Maric cradled the box of supplies on his lap like a baby. He stroked its sides gently, as if to soothe its feelings. Loghain glanced at him and questioned his sanity before settling on a crate to sharpen his dagger with his new whetstone. Maric rummaged through his stuff and pulled out a bar of soap. He raised it to Loghain’s eye level and balanced it carefully, his hand its pedestal.  
  
“This, Loghain, is soap.”  
  
“I know what soap is.”  
  
“I’m going to marry this soap someday.”  
  
Loghain raised an eyebrow quizzically. Maric could tell he was thinking of a witty retort, stopped, and shook his head fondly in defeat. Maric thought that maybe he really should marry that soap.  
  
4  
  
“Leave me alone. Goooo have your meeting with Arl What’s-His-Face and forget about me like you always do.” Maric shooed Loghain away and took a hearty swig of his ale. Loghain sighed impatiently, counted to three, and snatched the tankard from his friend’s hand. Maric made a grab at it, but even sober, he knew he couldn’t best Loghain. So, he did what any grown man would do in this situation. He crossed his arms and pouted.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Loghain muttered, hoisting Maric up from his chair and onto his horse. The cold, winter wind blew on Maric’s face and he shivered, watching the little puffs of smoke come out of his mouth. Loghain climbed the horse and wrapped Maric in a warm, fur blanket. The resentment and bitterness ebbed away, and he felt safe for the first time.  
  
Maric looked at Loghain with wide eyes. He saw a strong jaw set in a firm line and worry in his icy blue eyes. “Loghain…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“…You don’t owe me anything.”  
  
5  
  
“No. No. Your form is wrong.”  
  
“Your face is wrong,” Maric replied, exasperated.  
  
“Maric, that doesn’t make sense.”  
  
Loghain moved closer to Maric, adjusting his arms and hips so he would be aiming the arrow right. Maric gulped. For some reason, the sky was really, really interesting right now. He was stiffer than that nearby tree. He hoped this would fly over Loghain’s head, and it did.  
  
“There.”  
  
“T-thank you.”  
  
6  
  
The sky overhead was a vast, seemingly endless blanket of stars. On this hill, it was only Loghain and Maric and the crickets. It was pleasantly quiet but Maric’s heart was drumming like an orchestra.  
  
“Have you ever wondered what life would be like without the Orlesians?”  
  
“Everyday.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
Loghain sat up, and looked at Maric intensely in the way he only could. Maric felt his face flush.  
  
“A lot of things would be better.”  
  
“Not all?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Maric – without thinking – grabbed the sides of Loghain’s face and mashed their lips together. He wanted to forget about so many things – his mother, his duty, his current kingship. Without the Orlesians, so many things would be better.  
  
Not all. He supposed.


	6. congratulations on the sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baby's first threesome

“Ah. You are… occupied.”

Occupied… was a word for it.  _Inappropriate_  was another. Although knowing Isabela, a locked door or a warning sock was too much to ask for. The other person – an elf, Fenris noticed – stretched like a jungle cat, and the look he sent to Fenris’ direction was almost predatory.

“I shall take my leave.”

“Oh, don’t do that!” Isabela called out, seating herself at the edge of her bed and wearing nothing but bare skin and earrings. “Two’s company.  _Three’s a party_. Hop in.”

“Yes, yes, my handsome, tattooed friend! The more the merrier! Come!”

“Three people? …At once?”

“Why not?” the two said in unison. Fenris looked sceptical but not unwilling, a cue Isabela picked up instantly. She held Fenris’ hand and led him to the bed.

—

“So, the tattooes. They truly stretch out everywhere?”

“The fun part is finding out for yourself. Keep undressing him.”

“Stop talking.”

—

Fenris ran a hand through his hair and began the arduous task of pulling up his leggings.

“It… might be too late to ask this, but who was that man?”

Isabela smiled. “I’m so proud of you.”


	7. Imagine Your OTP in the rain

It always astounded Alistair how clueless Amell was about simple things, and positively brilliant about the others. She knew a disproportionate amount about Orlesian stories (“they have a flair for the dramatic,” she said), but she didn’t know how to make a campfire. She weaved spells like an unstoppable force of nature, but she didn’t know bread was made.

Alistair, why are skies so high and dirt so brown, and the world so chaotic as if there were no rules and regulations to bind them — and everybody is free to do as they wish?

The first time it rained when Amell was out of the tower, they were in a tent together and Alistair awoke to her cowering under his arms. He asked her what was wrong, and the mage who dished out blizzards and lightning storms like they were nothing, told him something was  _happening_  outside.

Alistair opened the flaps of their tent to search for rabid bears and bandits and saw… nothing. He turned around and Amell wore the most befuddled expression ever.

“It’s…  _water?_ ”

And then she ran outside, like that was the most normal reaction to this, and raised her hands to feel the rain. Alistair laughed, sitting in the safe, warm and  _dry_  confines of their tent. “It’s rain. You’ve never seen rain?”

Amell scoffed and stood there, wet and soaked in the rain. She seemed to like it. She grabbed Alistair by the hand and led him to the rain, the man protesting the whole time, and she laughed, flicking wet hair away from her face.

“This is great. It’s like a bath!”

“It’s dirtier than a bath, I think.”

They went on a walk of sorts, under the pouring rain. And then they jumped around pools and wrestled in the mud, like Alistair wasn’t an adult and Amell was catching up on the childhood she never had.

They kissed on the muddy ground, and ended up with terrible fevers the day after, Wynne scolding them about playing in the rain like children.

“I think I like rain. I like high skies and dirt, and the freedom it comes with it.”

Alistair squeezed her hand.


End file.
